by Anne Weale
“No, my face has nothing to do with it,” she broke in. “Please listen to me, Yves. Let me explain.”
“No, no, I will not listen,” he said vehemently. “You are not well. You are depressed. You are not yourself.”
But the day came—when Jane was allowed out of bed to sit by the window—when he had to listen to her. And, after a stormy emotional scene, she knew she had convinced him.
“But you must marry me. What else is there for you?” he burst out, in a last desperate attempt to change her mind. “You cannot take up your career again. It will be months before the scar has gone, Jane.” Then he realized his gaffe, and looked appalled. “I am sorry. I did not mean that. I was exaggerating.”
“Don’t look like that, Yves I know I’m finished as a model. I’ve known it all along,” she told him gently. She rose from her chair and moved to the dressing table. “I think it’s time I saw just how bad the scar is.”
“No, please—you must not,” he protested, as she started to remove the dressing.
She was no longer heavily bandaged, but had a long strip of lint held to her cheek by lengths of transparent plastic tape. Carefully she peeled away the tapes and laid the covering on the table. The scar was not as bad as she had expected. It was a thin red seam from eyebrow to jawline, with faint markings where the stitches had been.
But when she turned to Yves, he went white.
“Diable!” he whispered hoarsely.
Then a nurse came in with a tea tray, and nearly dropped it when she saw what Jane had done.
“Miss Baron, you’ve taken off your dressing! Now that’s very naughty indeed. I’m surprised at you!”
By the time she had finished scolding, Yves had composed himself. But although he did his best to cover that moment of involuntarily revulsion, Jane was thankful when at last he went away.
She knew that he had loved her, and still did. But she also knew that he could hardly bear to look at her now. It was an aversion beyond his control. He could not help himself.
In the evening. Heather came to see her. She had wanted to postpone her wedding until her friend was discharged from the Clinic. But Jane had refused to hear of it.
“Do you know when they’ll let you out of here?” Heather asked, as she rose to leave.
Jane shook her head. "Soon, I hope. I’m getting tired of being cooped up in this room.”
“Yes, I expect you are, poor dear. Never mind, you’ll soon be on your honeymoon too.”
Jane managed to smile. She did not want Heather to know the truth until she and Bill returned from Corsica. It would be bound to cast a blight on the other girl’s happiness.
“David flies in from Vienna tomorrow morning. I expect he’ll come and see you,” Heather told her. Her eyes grew dreamy. “Tomorrow ... my last day as a bachelor girl. I wonder if I shall get last-minute jitters? Oh, heavens, look at the time. I must dash. I’ll pop in again tomorrow, duckie. ‘Bye now.”
The following morning, Jane received a letter from Yves.
‘Ma chère,’ (he had written)
‘With deepest regret, I feel I must accept your decision. I cannot believe your explanation that you agreed to marry me for mercenary reasons. I know you too well now. You are not that kind of girl. I feel sure you have had some affection for me. Perhaps the truth is that your heart still belongs to the man of whom you told me.
Do not regret what has happened between us, Jane. I do not. I am returning to Paris immediately. But, if you should change your mind, you can reach me through the address below. Believe me, I shall always be at your service if you need help in the future.’
He had signed himself simply—Yves.’
Later, the doctor came to see her, and said it was no longer necessary to keep a dressing on her cheek. But when she asked him when she could leave, he urged her to stay at the Clinic for a few more days.
“We will give you a special paste to conceal the scar for the first couple of weeks, Miss Baron, and after that you may use ordinary cosmetics,” he explained.
About three in the afternoon, Jane was doing her nails when there was a tap at the door. Expecting Heather, she called “Come in” without looking round.
The door behind her opened and closed. Then there was silence. Puzzled, she turned and saw David.
“Hello, Jane,” he said quietly.
Instinctively, her hand flew to her cheek and she knocked her manicure box from the arm of her chair.
“Oh, dear, how clumsy of me!”
David came forward and bent to pick up the scattered bottles and instruments.
I’m sorry. I startled you.” He replaced the things in the box, and handed it back to her. Then he straightened. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine. How are you ? Heather told me you were coming home today, but I didn’t expect to see you,” she ended, flushing. Then she forced herself to drop her hand and expose her injured cheek to him.
He looked at the scar for a moment. “May I sit down?”
“Yes, do.” Her voice shook. She felt almost sick with relief. She could not have borne it if David had recoiled as Yves had done. But whatever he felt inwardly, he had not shown a flicker of distaste.
“I won’t stay long. I expect you get tired easily,” he said, taking the other chair.
“Oh, no, I’m perfectly well now. I—I’m very glad to see you. They’ll be bringing tea soon. You’ll have some, won’t you?”
“Aren’t you expecting someone else?”
“Only Heather. Do smoke if you like. There’s an ash-tray by the bed.”
“Not just now, thanks.” He crossed his long legs. “When do you leave here?”
“Some time next week.” She unscrewed a bottle of base coat and carefully applied it to her nails, unable to meet his steady scrutiny.
“Are you getting married right away?”
Jane shook her head.
“What are your plans, then?” David persisted.
She had to tell him the truth. She had lied to him once, and bitterly regretted it. She could never lie to him again.
“I’m not sure yet. You see, I’m not going to marry Yves now. But please don’t tell Heather. She wouldn’t understand, and I couldn’t bear to spoil her wedding day. You won’t tell, will you, David?”
He did not answer, and, looking up, she could not interpret the expression on his lean dark face.
“You mean St. Cyr has left you?”
“No, we broke up by mutual consent. We found we were not suited to each other. Please promise you won’t tell Heather.”
“No, I won’t ... but, my God, I’d like to get my hands on him!” He sprang to his feet, his face blazing. Even on that evening at the flat, when she had wilfully killed his respect for her, he had not looked so savagely angry.
“You don’t understand—” she began.
“Like hell I don’t! I might have known this would happen, damn him.”
“I thought you would be pleased,” she said unsteadily. “You never liked him. You warned me I was a fool.”
“I knew what he was. I knew he had no guts,” David said fiercely. “I suppose he took one look at your face and that was it.”
“Well, it isn’t very pretty, is it?”
He said something under his breath and she heard his teeth set. Then, with an obvious effort, he controlled his anger and dropped on one knee beside her chair.
His hands on her shoulders, he said, “Listen to me, Jane. Being hurt is a part of life. We all take some pretty vicious knocks. But you will get over this. You may even be glad of it later.”
“You still don’t understand. I’m not heartbroken, David. I wasn’t in love with poor Yves. It’s true he was upset when he saw this—”she touched the scar—“but it was I who broke the engagement. You mustn’t blame Yves. I’m the one who caused the harm.”
“Well, now it’s over and you must try to forget it, he told her. “And don’t worry about your job. It may be some time before you can work again—but
you will.”
“Not as a model, I’m afraid.”
“Nonsense,” he said bracingly. ‘Of course you’ll model again. I’ve seen scars much worse than yours fade out in time. By the autumn, there’ll be just a faint white line which you can easily cover with make-up. You’ll be back. I’ll see to that.”
The nurse brought tea, and presently Heather arrived.
When she and David left together, he said, ‘I’ll look in tomorrow to tell you all about the wedding.”
Jane nodded and smiled. But her spirits were at zero again. For a moment, when he had been so angry about Yves, she had had a wild hope that his concern was personal. But then she had realized that what he felt was only a compound of pity and professional loyalty. It was not in his nature to let anyone down if they needed help—not even someone he despised.
Next morning she discharged herself from the Clinic—Yves had already paid all the expenses to the end of the following week, she found—leaving a note for David when he called. In it, she told him she was going away for a convalescent holiday and would be in touch with him later.
She went to a village in Berkshire where she had once modelled evening dresses in the grounds of a private park. There was a Georgian inn with a coaching yard and an oak-panelled parlor where she had had lunch that day.
The proprietor advertised bed and breakfast, catering mainly for commercial travellers. But, after a consultation with his wife, he agreed to give Jane full board.
The day before Bill and Heather were due home Jane wrote to Heather at the flat. She told her friend where she was staying, but forbade her to tell anyone else.
Since leaving London, she had her hair cut short in a rather scruffy back-street shop called Maison Gladys. It was now almost its natural mid-brown color again with a few remaining silver-gilt tips. She had also bought herself some rather dowdy cotton frocks in the nearest market town. In spite of the scar on her face, nobody recognized her as the fashion model who had been in the headlines recently.
At first, she had feared that the Press would pick up the story again when they found Yves had left the Carlton Tower, and she had disappeared from the London Clinic. But when she had disappeared from the London Clinic. But when she searched the papers every morning, there was no mention of her or Yves.
Although she had enough money to keep her going for several months, she had begun to think about the future and had decided to take a secretarial training course.
One evening, she returned to the Unicorn after a walk in the pine woods which surrounded the village to see David sitting on the bench outside the smoke-room. He was drinking a light ale and talking to an old countryman.
Jane considered doubling back and approaching the pub from the other direction. But then she realized it could not possibly be a coincidence that he was here. Heather must have given away her bolt-hole.
She walked towards him, forcing herself to appear composed. “David, what a surprise!”
He stared at her without answering, his face unreadable. Then he put his half full mug on the rustic table, said, “Will you excuse me, sir?” to the old man, and stood up.
A moment later Jane was being forcibly marched round the building to where a lawn ran down to the river. By the disused boathouse, David swung her to face him,
“I’ll give you ‘what a surprise’! I’d like to beat the daylights out of you,” he said tersely. “What the devil do you mean by running off into the blue like that?”
“I wanted to be on my own. Heather had no right to tell you I was here,” she retorted crisply, rubbing her bruised elbow.
“She didn’t want to, but I made her see reason,” he said grimly.
“What reason?” Jane asked tartly. “Of all the overbearing, interfering ... oh, really!” She turned her back on him, suddenly, foolishly close to tears.
Behind her, David said, “I told her I loved you, that’s all.”
Every muscle in her body seemed to freeze. “You ... what?” she whispered incredulously.
“I said I loved you.” His voice was rough. “I said I’d taken about as much as I could stand, and I had to know you were all right. I’ve been going round the bend with worry.”
“Oh, David ... oh, darling!” She flung herself against him and clung to him.
His arms closed convulsively round her. After a while he said huskily, “Does this mean you feel the same about me?”
She nodded, her face pressed into his shoulder. “Always ... from the beginning. That’s why I came to London.”
He kissed her then, crushing her against him with all his considerable strength. She thought her ribs were going to crack, but she did not mind. He loved her. He had said so. She was in heaven.
“What happened? What went wrong?” he said at last. “That night at your flat you were so sweet ... but when you came back, ye gods!”
“You never phoned. You never wrote. And Margot came over.”
“Margot? What the devil has she to do with it?” he demanded. “But all that was years ago. Before I’d even met you. Who raked up those old ashes? Oh, Heather, I suppose.”
“She didn’t mean any harm. She didn’t know how I felt about you. And then when I met Margot in Bermuda, and saw how beautiful she was, I—”
“Now listen,” he interrupted. “I was never in love with Margot. I was involved with her for a time—but love didn’t come into it.” He touched her scarred cheek with gentle fingers. “The first time I ever fell in love was in a shelter on the pier at Starmouth.”
“Oh, David, I don’t believe you. I looked like nothing on earth then. Besides, it was the first time we met.”
“It’s true all the same,” he assured her. “You were the first natural girl I’d met in about five years. You wore a ratty old mac and your hair was all over the place, and when you smiled at me I nearly hit the roof. Then I brought you to London and made you a fashionable beauty, and everything changed. You weren’t my Starmouth Jane any more. Until that night I came to supper.”
“But after that night ... why didn’t you phone me, David? I expected a call or a letter every day. I was so wretched not hearing from you.”
“I had to think things out,” he said slowly. “I’d already forced you into one mould, and regretted it. I didn’t want to make a second mistake. You were so young and so lovely. The world was your oyster, sweetheart. But I wasn’t prepared to share my wife with the world.”
“But I didn’t want the world—only you.”
His arms tightened round her. “When you look at me like that, I think I must have been crazy not to follow you up to Scotland on the next train. Let’s get married tomorrow by special licence.”
She laughed, her eyes shining. “Could we?”
“Well, if not tomorrow, very soon. I can’t risk losing you again.”
Next morning he drove her back to London.
“You can stay at my flat. Mrs. MacDonald will chaperone us as long as it’s necessary,” David said, as they left the village. “Then we’ll pack her off to Edinburgh for a fortnight and have the place to ourselves. Do you mind not having a proper honeymoon for the time being?”
“I don’t mind anything as long as I’m with you,” Jane said simply.
Suddenly she remembered Heather’s prophecy that David would marry some ordinary home-loving girl unconnected with the fashion world. How right she was! Jane thought, smiling to herself. And she knew she would never miss the limelight and the superficial glamor of her brief but spectacular career as a model girl.
From now on, all she wanted—would ever want—was to be the centre of David’s private life.
THE END
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